I worried that mud and stones slipped into the hole as we lowered her down, straps scraping against the sides of the grave. The coffin was so new and clean, lying at the bottom; it didn’t seem right that it should be dirty.
The whole ceremony was so practical. No stranger reading irrelevant verses about someone they never knew, no blackness, no sickly flowers. Just the people that she really cared about, he said.
It feels a really logical part of this process that I am trying to understand; the weight of her body on the bier as we wheeled it through the wood, over roots and leaves, autumn sunlight. Picked a blackberry from beside the path as we wheeled along. Feeling her weight as we lowered her into the ground.
Standing quietly, waiting for whatever came next. Crying.
M was there, a delight as always. Took my hand and led me along the path. Too young to know, falling over, playing with leaves, smiling.
Observing this process, but I don’t understand it. Heaviness, and helplessness.
I feel she is watching me.